


The Drowned Man

by Tarpeia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: grindeldore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 15:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia
Summary: In the aftermath of the great duel of 1945, Albus Dumbledore struggles to come to terms with his defeat of Gellert Grindelwald and his new, devastating burden. Seen through the eyes of Horace Slughorn.





	The Drowned Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Drowning Souls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17934617) by [almanera4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanera4/pseuds/almanera4), [Tarpeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia). 



> For the most part, this story relies on the canon established by the Harry Potter books without acknowledging the newer revelations from Fantastic Beasts (such as the Blood Pact, Credence’s involvement or Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Gellert). 
> 
> Without being a direct sequel, it is in line with the story Drowning Souls, which I have had the pleasure of co-writing with the amazing almanera4. Available on both of our profiles, it narrates the events of the fateful summer of 1899 and the story of Albus and Gellert’s relationship. 
> 
> Warning for the topic of self-harm.

In retrospect, Horace Slughorn believed it had started in 1943. That year had crushed the lies he had been telling himself ever since he had felt dissatisfaction stir inside him for the first time. With every passing season, more questions would arise when he expected them least. Had he chosen the right path? Was he worthy of his parents’ legacy? Had his carefully crafted strategies been nothing but self-delusion? Whenever he met with his cousin’s family on Boxing Day or spent a customary fortnight at their summer villa in Devonshire, he would watch his nephews and nieces play in the garden, chasing the dogs on toy brooms, and the questions would start anew.

He did not like the noise or the fuss; creature of comfort that he was, he had jovially declined his cousin-in-law’s proposals to introduce him to the ladies from her circle. Yet during the night hours, when doubt gnawed at his confidence, he would need all the eloquence in the world to convince himself he was doing the right thing—after all, who knew his needs better than himself? But could he truly trust his own judgment when it had become impossible to tell where certitude ended and pure pride started?

Teaching, however, remained enjoyable, and so did the gatherings of his Club. He loved observing people and listening to them. All wizards and witches, as far as he was concerned, possessed a talent of their own and could be an asset to the world they lived in. But helping all of his students unlock and channel their unique gifts was beyond the capacity of a single teacher. Horace, therefore, had focused his attention on the brightest of them: those who stood out from the crowd and needed but a push in the right direction or a word of recommendation in the right ear. With time, he had learned to assess young people at a glance, knowing exactly how to draw them out of their shells. Or so he had thought.

How he could have been so mistaken in young Tom Riddle, he could not account for. He had often resented Albus’s quiet disapproval and his cautious yet unmistakable dislike where their brightest student was concerned. He had gone so far as to doubt Albus’s competency at assessing people at all: brilliant though he was, all his colleague seemed to have seen in life was the inside of his Transfiguration office. Their first meeting, a long while ago now, had been a disconcerting surprise. Despite his reputation of being the most powerful wizard who had ever attended Hogwarts, Dumbledore had turned out to be a silent young man with melancholy eyes, his gentle politeness a permanent mask that only dissolved when he produced magic. Indeed, when he raised his wand or scribbled new incantations with his graphite-tipped pen, he came to life, and the sight was mesmerising. Students loved him as they had never loved Horace.

Tom was an exception. If ever Horace were to have a son, he would have wished for a boy exactly like that modest yet in every way outstanding wizard. Young Riddle was one of the rare individuals who had it in him to penetrate the elite’s closed circles and gain pure-bloods’ admiration; not even his humble background of an orphan could halt him. He was capable of anything he set his mind on and was grateful for guidance. And so, Horace had come to consider him the closest thing to a child he would ever have. By the time he found out he had been nursing a viper in his bosom, it was too late.

The blow came literally weeks after Albus had persuaded Armando Dippet to remove a number of volumes on Dark magic from the Restricted Section. His response to Horace’s curious inquiries had been half-cryptic.

“Some brands of magic are too dangerous to dabble in. If we are not ready to provide a thorough education on those, it is safer to remove them from the students’ reach altogether.”

Could he possibly have foreseen the events to come? Tom approached his favourite teacher with his characteristic humility, words of flattery mingling with those of Necromancy, and Horace found himself unable to stop him. Whether it was due to his fondness for his ideal son, his fear of losing Tom’s trust, his loneliness or all of these combined, he gave away the forbidden information, and his terror was strong enough to overshadow his feeling of betrayal. He was more terrified than he had ever been in his life: for his career, for Tom’s future, for the lives that might be lost and would forever weigh on his conscience.

It was then, perhaps, that his vague irritation with his stagnant life transformed into a desperate yearning for a change. For some things, it was too late, but there was always the option of leaving, if only for a time, to clear his mind and gain a new perspective. A change of scenery; new faces and new minds to befriend outside of the never-changing staff at Hogwarts; a whirl of life before he settled down for good… those could be his salvation.

The new head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation was a good friend of his; he assured him a brief transfer to one of their partnering wizarding schools could be arranged. Horace’s original wish was to visit Beauxbatons and breathe in the warm, scented air of the Mediterranean. It was Albus who prompted him to reconsider.

There was a painting in Albus’s office that he seemed to treasure more than any of his other—admittedly scarce—possessions. It showed wild, ragged, snow-covered mountains towering over a lake of the purest indigo shade, all of it seen from the perspective of someone looking out of a window in a hall. Sun glinted in the rippling waters and on the dazzling surface of the snow, and the magic applied to the painting caused it to emit a soft, warm glow. Having never known the other wizard to be an art admirer, Horace questioned him on this remarkable piece.

“It’s Durmstrang, painted by someone who loved it very much,” Albus explained, looking up at the scenery with a hint of a reminiscent smile. “The landscape surrounding the castle is magnificent.”

He spoke as though he had seen it in person, which Horace knew to be impossible. He said nothing in response. Rumours had reached him through one of the many discreet channels in his Ministry connections—rumours of relations buried in the past—and he kept them to himself; this was among the pieces of information that required exclusive audience. But the painting had stirred something in him: a sense of adventure he did not know he still possessed. He wished he could see such a remarkable sight once in his life before old age caught up with him.

It took his friend from the Ministry months of negotiations with the most secretive of schools in Europe to arrange even the possibility of a short-term class on international wizarding law. Horace wondered if he was becoming paranoid in his fancy that he was being watched by Tom’s uncanny eyes whenever he was in the open. The anticipation of a long-coveted journey, however, gave him hope, and he dedicated himself to a thorough research of the law in the cosy silence of his office, surrounded by his usual small comforts, though for the first time in his memory, he felt detached from them.

Only, it was not meant to happen—at least, not this soon. While he had been planning an escape from his anxiety, Albus had been engaged in international negotiations of his own. Those back-and-forth discussions with the European Ministries of Magic were leaving him ever more distant and absent-minded; even the ghastly business of the Chamber of Secrets barely penetrated his preoccupation. In the end, he was forced to go, leaving his teaching post and his beloved phoenix in the care of the last person anyone had expected to replace him: Bathilda Bagshot, one firecracker of a witch. And Horace, obliged to remain at Hogwarts for the duration of his colleague’s absence, waited for news with a macabre and distracted sense of curiosity.

Everyone agreed Gellert Grindelwald, the bane of Europe, had to be stopped. Many berated Dumbledore for delaying this long while a few sympathised with him. For his part, Horace merely waited. He had a suspicion as to why Albus had left without his priceless helper, a magical bird that could shield him from the most lethal curses and whose tears had healing powers. He waited to see if it was Albus’s intention to return alive.

Mornings were all the same: tension at the teachers’ table as owls dropped the  _ Daily Prophet _ in front of their masters, breathless questions on whether the  _ confrontation  _ had already occurred. Horace did not need those: he knew a letter would reach him from his Ministry contacts as soon as something of consequence occurred. The only other person immune to the general hustle was Bathilda. On her first teaching day, she threw her colleagues, hidden behind newspapers, a glance of disdain and proceeded to cut her eggs and bacon.

“Are you not interested in the news?” Horace inquired, curious despite himself.

“No more than you,” she said crisply.

There was something of a ranting quality to the historian’s voice, which called to mind a grandmother seated in an old-fashioned parlour, decked out in strings of pearls and fussing over a tiny lapdog. For a reason he could not explain, Horace liked it. It was a rare quality to encounter at their time and age.

“Alas, at times like this, I feel our papers are better at reporting distant past, rather than the present,” he complained pleasantly.

“They report nothing accurately. If you’ll kindly pass me the jug.”

Tom rose from the Slytherin table, followed by his companions. Feeling eyes upon him, he smiled and sent a respectful nod towards Horace and Bathilda before leaving the Hall. A lump rose in Horace’s throat, prompting him to take a quick gulp of tea. If there was one thing he was grateful for, it was Albus’s absence for the rest of Tom’s attendance and graduation. It would have been a torture to carry his secret under the scrutiny of those penetrating eyes.

“What is his name again?” Bathilda uttered, and Horace saw her follow Tom’s retreating figure with a shrewd expression.

“That is Tom Riddle, one of our brightest.”

“Riddle.” Her lip curled in a humourless snort. “Not to me.”

She commented on nothing else, but it had been enough for Horace to regard her in a new light. Could she possibly have spotted at a glance what had taken him five years to discover?

The anticipated owl came on a warm evening of May, sent by a graduate of his, Valerius Griffin from the  _ Daily Prophet _ , who had been present at the scene of action. The letter contained a brief account of the glorious duel that had culminated in Grindelwald’s defeat and a promise of more details in person. Proving Horace right, it added a caution: not everything in the following day’s edition of the paper was to be trusted, for the official version had been heavily censored and adjusted.

Not that anyone seemed to notice or care. Even with the exam period in full swing, breakfast was turned into a jubilant event by nearly everybody except for Slytherins. Students clustered around the subscribers to the  _ Daily Prophet _ , demanding to hear details on their favourite professor’s feat, and quite a few teachers joined in the cheering, for the war was over for good. Later that evening, Armando Dippet handed out flutes of champagne in the staffroom. Through a small group of witches and wizards, Horace glimpsed Fawkes’s red and gold plumage and made his way towards Bathilda with a spare glass. She accepted it with the air of an empress, absently stroking the phoenix’s head.

“Is the news what you expected it to be?” he asked, noting how fond of her the bird was.

“Naturally.” She fixed him with a beady yet direct gaze. “It takes more than this to surprise me.”

If it were true, she was alone in her secure confidence. Valerius Griffin seemed to remain uncertain as to what had truly happened despite having been present at the great duel. When, a week later, he paid Horace a visit at the latter’s home, he looked thoughtful and almost uncomfortable.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted after a sip of sherry, casting an absent glance across his old teacher’s cosy sitting room. “You see, by the time I arrived, they were already duelling, and it was utter bedlam. There was supposed to be an agreement between Dumbledore and the officials: they were to follow him at all times, surround the enemy’s hiding place and provide support. But it would appear he double-crossed them, sneaking out on his own in the middle of the night to talk to Grindelwald, against all instructions. I can’t tell you how he got in without getting killed—how he got in at all, in fact—though once you hear the rest, you may come to the same theory as I have. Well, you can imagine: they weren’t happy with him. I got there shortly after dawn with Frances—she is one of the  _ Prophet _ ’s best photographers. It was like… like nothing I’d ever seen.”

The young wizard broke off, his brows furrowed in reminiscence.

“They are the two most powerful wizards in Europe,” Horace prodded gently. “Their magic must have been spectacular to behold.”

“It’s not entirely that. I do wish there were a way to show you my memory—it would make it easier—but I’m no Legilimens.” Valerius leaned forward, taking a few seconds to gather his thoughts. “When we came, they were at the outskirts of the town. The racket was unimaginable. All the onlookers were hiding a good distance away as everything seemed to be lit on fire—red, silver, blue, you name it. The air was scorching to the lungs, the earth vibrated with magic, and they were two figures surrounded by flames.” He exhaled, his eyes wide, as though he could still see the thunderstorm of spells before him. “They were always moving, smoothly, gracefully, and it was impossible for the Aurors to close in. They finally managed to surround the area, but before it could be magically enclosed, the two wizards Disapparated to continue duelling about a mile away. And this kept happening over and over again. We would pursue them, trying to stay out of the reach of their spellwork while a number of Ministry employees lingered behind to clear the areas and Obliviate any Muggles in the vicinity. Picture the way a tempest glides from place to place; only, this time, lightning was made of dazzling colours, and thunder caused the ground to quake. It was, however, hypnotising to watch, and even  _ we _ felt more alive than ever while we cowered far away.”

Horace believed it; he could almost hear the clamour, taste the air permeated with magical fire, feel the wind swish against his face.

“Do you reckon they were evenly matched?” he wondered. “If you had a chance to come closer…”

“There was a moment,” Valerius breathed. “They kept moving to different terrain: anything from a meadow to an island on the lake. At one point, it was a small mountain range; we didn’t locate them at once. There was a jagged peak yards away from where they were duelling, and I Apparated behind it—I know what you are thinking, professor, but at a time like this… it’s hard to explain, but I  _ had  _ to try and see.”

He answered Horace’s politely incredulous expression with a sheepish grin.

“You won’t judge me when you hear what I have to say. Because I had noticed something while this had been going on. I’ve already mentioned the area was lit with spells of many colours.  _ All _ the colours, except for green. In all that time, neither of them had cast the Killing Curse.” The young man paused to let this sink in. “So I looked closely. There was Dumbledore, his hair and cloak billowing, his wand a blur. And there was Grindelwald, matching him spell for spell. It was the first time I was seeing him in person, and after all the propaganda, I wasn’t sure what I’d expected—I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a monster with glowing eyes and horns on his head. Instead, there was something almost luminous about him—tall, majestic he was, not all that different from Dumbledore, and yet entirely different. But the most striking thing was the way they maintained eye contact. Of course, one does that in a duel; what I mean is, they looked at each other as if… as if—”

“As if their duel was a moment of privacy,” Horace suggested.

“Yes. As if they were all alone.” The journalist shook his head, somewhat shocked by his own account. “Not to mention they were using spells which, to wizards like them, were easy to block; an average wizard would struggle, certainly, but not them, even though they were firing away at an insane pace. To top it all… I distinctly saw Dumbledore pulverise a boulder a good fifteen feet away from Grindelwald, and I saw the latter do the same. But as soon as an Auror came within a distance to intervene, he was  _ accidentally  _ blasted away before they Disapparated again. I saw it happen: Dumbledore had angled his wand in a surgically precise manner. There was nothing wrong with their aim. And that was when I understood it was all deliberate. They were playing with us, making us believe they were fighting to death while, in reality, it was but a show. The loud noise and the blinding light were designed to scare us away; the Apparition was a measure against getting trapped; and all the while, they communicated without words.”

There was a short silence before the older wizard remarked, “It must have been very vexing to come to such a realisation.”

“I… just wanted to laugh,” Valerius confessed. “Tension was rampant; I’m sure all of us had experienced fear for our lives at some moments during those hours. And yet, those two were  _ protecting _ each other. All I could do was laugh at the irony of it all.”

“How did it lead to Dumbledore’s victory?”

“It had been going on for hours. They were becoming tired, we could tell, and couldn’t keep at it for much longer. So at last, a misstep happened when Grindelwald wasn’t quick enough to parry a spell. I’m not sure what it was—probably some kind of Banishing Charm or Revulsion Jinx as it knocked him back. For a few seconds, they looked at each other; I wasn’t close enough to see them clearly any more, but I’m certain there was some kind of communication between them still. And then Dumbledore used the Disarming Charm to catch his wand. Within a moment, Aurors were upon them, and it was over. It wasn’t the grand climax you’d expect; rather, it was gradual exhaustion. After they were taken away, we didn’t linger; they called us to the office and more or less instructed us on what the official version was to be.”

“I can imagine.” Horace sighed, tapping the bottle to replenish their glasses. “You will not cover the aftermath then?”

“No, professor; I’ve been called home for good. It is most likely going to be prison for Grindelwald, and someone else will be reporting the development. Frances has stayed for now.”

“You ought to be proud of yourself, my dear chap. Censored or not, your article has become a sensation, and your involvement in this mission will make for a turning point in your career.”

“I hope you are right.” The journalist passed a distracted hand over his eyes. “It haunts me, you know. What I saw on the mountain. People think it’s all about politics and grand principles, but everything is driven by personal reasons. I still struggle to make sense of it. I do feel for Dumbledore—truly, I do. But no matter how well-intentioned, Grindelwald’s actions resulted in many deaths, and if _my_ family had been caught in this, I’d have been screaming for his blood… and for Dumbledore’s, for that matter, because _he_ delayed in taking action. As if his feelings were above justice.” He exhaled. “And yet, I saw Grindelwald, and for a moment, I understood why so many people had put their trust in him. Maybe I would have done the same, had I been Dumbledore. All I can say is that everything is complicated and that we are lucky not to be tangled in it, professor.”

“Indeed we are,” the older wizard agreed. “Perhaps a short leave of absence is what you need. After an ordeal of this magnitude, a little sun and rest, you know…”

“In two weeks,” Valerius nodded. “It’s approved. Only a few interviews remain to go through. Now, this is still a secret, but they are planning on introducing a Chocolate Frog Card dedicated to Dumbledore. It will mention the duel and a few other key facts about his career.” He leaned closer. “They have been trying to obtain a little information on his hobbies, something to include in the card text, but with very little success. You wouldn’t know about his preferences, would you, professor? Anything would help, really.”

“Ah, if ever I’ve met a man addicted to his work, it’s Albus all right,” Horace chuckled. “He works late into the evening: when he isn’t marking, he is preparing his lessons, and when he isn’t doing that, he is scribbling spells or reading. I wouldn’t be surprised if his life consisted of nothing else.”

“Would you know of anyone who knows him well?”

Off the top of his mind, Horace thought of Bathilda Bagshot, but he felt it would be disrespectful to send a journalist after a witch of her disposition. With her secretive temper, she would not appreciate unsolicited attention form the press, and she was sharp enough to fathom out who had instigated this interrogation.

“I would recommend asking Elphias Doge from the Ministry; he, as far as I’m aware, was a school friend of Albus’s. He might even tell you where to find the younger Dumbledore brother. I’ve never met him since he left Hogwarts before I became a student, but I know for a fact Albus has a brother.”

“I’ve heard about him,” Valerius murmured, noting down Doge’s name. “If I can find and persuade him to give the  _ Prophet _ an interview, he might even shed light on what happened all those years ago. I will keep you posted, professor; this needs to be completed before my leave.”

But Horace did not receive another note from Valerius until a month later. The young man had, indeed, succeeded in locating Aberforth Dumbledore; only, to Horace’s guilty discomfort, the questioning had resulted in the journalist spending his leave of absence at St. Mungo’s. Bathilda, it transpired, was not alone at jealously guarding the secrets of her past.

Meanwhile, the verdict had passed, and Grindelwald was incarcerated at Nurmengard Castle, the political prison he himself had built many years earlier. Papers on the subject multiplied, dissecting his fate from all angles and gathering interviews. They also announced the Order of Merlin, First Class, was to be awarded to Dumbledore for his outstanding contribution in ending the global wizarding war.

Hogwarts staff anticipated their famous colleague’s return with excitement, ready to greet him with a pre-holiday celebration. As weeks advanced, it became clear this would not happen. School disbanded for summer, then resumed in September; the press had moved on to new political topics; and still, Dumbledore remained abroad.

Until, on a mid-November afternoon, he pushed open the door to the staffroom, where the rest of the teachers were completing their meeting. In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Horace took in with some alarm yet little surprise that Albus had aged ten years. He had always looked slightly older than his age; now, however, the difference was startlingly pronounced.

He returned his co-workers’ greetings and embraces with his usual cordiality, yet his eyes immediately sought out Bathilda with a fearful look, as though he expected to be met with anger and reprimands. Despite her inscrutable expression, the pat she gave his arm was not devoid of understanding, which only added to his emotion.

While the meeting dissolved, the Chocolate Frog Card was brought up.

“They came out in September, just in time for the school year.”

Mr Bramley, the Ancient Runes teacher, brandished a pentagonal card with Dumbledore’s likeness. Taken aback, Albus gave the text one glance and blanched. His voice, when it came back a few seconds later, did not waver, though.

“I enjoy tenpin bowling?”

There were good-natured chuckles, and Albus excused himself to regain his office. Mr Bramley’s laughter died abruptly at the stern look on Bathilda’s face.

Gradually, life at Hogwarts settled back to its natural course. Tom was gone, yet contrary to his expectations, Horace did not find himself breathing with more ease. His last attempt at amending his actions was met with failure: not only had his once favourite student declined introductions to some of his Ministry contacts; to add insult to injury, he was also revealed to have sought out employment at Borgin and Burkes, a vulgar shop in Knockturn Alley. Horace could not tell why this piece of news had left him with such a bitter feeling of betrayal; all he knew was that he needed a change, and time had never been more favourable. Albus was back, disorientated and in need of piecing his life together, it was true, but eager to submerge himself in work nonetheless. It would not be difficult for Armando Dippet to find a substitute Potions Master for a month or two. The negotiations with Durmstrang resumed until, at long last, a date was set.

It was a joy to plan the journey and make purchases: everything from warm suits and silk shirts to magical guides and English-Norwegian lexicons. His books on wizarding law occupied a suitcase of their own, one that would have been impossible to lift without magic; but like everything else these days, it only served to make him chuckle. Then on a Sunday afternoon, as he returned to his office with a tailor-made set of dress robes for formal events, he found a new letter on his desk, and for the first time in years, he felt fury.

Durmstrang did not want him as a temporary tutor after all. It was Dumbledore they were asking for: the hero and the saviour of Europe.  _ He _ was to travel North in a few weeks;  _ he  _ was to deliver lectures on the subject Horace had been researching so thoroughly;  _ he  _ was to enjoy the trip that had been arranged by Horace as a remedy to his anxiety. And it was all the worse for knowing Albus craved none of it; he was barely coping with his own routine.

Hours went by, filled with heated plotting and elaborate scheming. Disbelief, hurt, drafts of incriminating letters against everyone involved in the negotiations, more hurt, silent promises of vengeance, outrage, disbelief again. Finally, he was calming down. There was a simple solution to his snag: discussing the matter with Albus and asking him to decline the offer—which, he had no doubt, his colleague would do at once. This would leave Durmstrang with no option but to proceed with their initial agreement. And while Horace’s enthusiasm for the adventure had been vastly dampened, he had gone through too much trouble to back off out of sheer pride.

It was nearing eleven in the evening when the Potions Master made his way out of the dungeons and towards the Transfiguration office. Albus was notorious for working until midnight, sometimes even later, and Horace knew he would not object to a conversation. He knocked and entered, but to his surprise, he found the study empty. It now appeared more modest than ever, for all the adornments had been removed, except for the painting of the mountains. What was more, a burning smell lingered in the air. Upon a closer look at the desk, Horace saw a moving heap of ash beneath Fawkes’s perch: the phoenix had ignited only instants ago to be reborn as a chick.

He glanced towards the door that led to Dumbledore’s private room. It was ajar, giving on to near-darkness.

“Albus?”

There was no response. A frown settled on his features. Something was wrong; his gut feeling never lied. He knocked, and when no answer followed, he pushed forward.

In the flickering light of a single candle, he saw the tall wizard on the stone floor, unconscious. His shirt was open, and his wand had fallen out of his limp hand.

“Albus!”

Horace rushed towards him, dropping to his knees. Despite the poor light, he saw at once what had happened, and the horrifying realisation stole his breath away. Albus’s chest was covered in severe burn marks. The pain must have been excruciating—so much so that it had caused him to faint. There was moisture on his feverish face.

Without another second’s delay, Horace reached into his pockets; precaution had taught him to carry a number of small potion vials on him at all times, and the Essence of Dittany was among the most important ones. Yet even as he carefully applied it to the wounds, he knew it was nowhere near sufficient. He looked around for Dumbledore’s personal potion supply, only to register that the bedroom had been stripped completely bare. Carpet, curtains, bed, lamp, armchair: everything was gone. A thin blanket lay at one corner, next to the candle, and a few feet away, a small chest contained Albus’s clothes and personal possessions.

The safest solution was to call for one of the school house-elves and instruct it to fetch the necessary potions from Horace’s own office. As he waited for the little creature to return, the wizard conjured a goblet and filled it with water. His alarm was abating to be replaced with consternation. What he was witnessing was neither the aftermath of a magical accident nor the result of a Curse; it was not even Albus’s attempt to take his own life. It was deliberate self-harm in its purest form. He did not pause at the thought; the moment the required potions were set before him, he proceeded to heal the burns with more Dittany. Little by little, the swelling subsided, and the blisters dissolved in puffs of green vapour, leaving only faint marks in their wake. Those would fade after a dose of Wiggenweld Potion, a bottle of which now rested beside the goblet of water.

“ _ Ennervate _ ,” Horace uttered, his wand aloft.

The pale blue eyes fluttered open, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

“It’s all right, Albus. Be careful, don’t make sudden movements. There, let me assist you.”

He helped the other wizard heave himself into sitting position and passed him the potion, which Albus drank without a protest. Water was equally crucial to compensate for the dehydration. Within a minute, the effects of the brew started manifesting themselves: the fever was relenting, escaping through the droplets of perspiration on Albus’s cooling skin. The scars would take a little longer to vanish, and the tall wizard seemed aware of it as he closed his shirt before meeting his colleague’s eye.

“Thank you, Horace,” he said quietly. “Thank you, truly. I’m… so very sorry.”

They looked at each other, and there was understanding between them as they had never experienced it before. Horace felt this was neither the time nor the place to feign ignorance. The situation called for actions; only those could alleviate suffering this intense.

“Albus, listen,” he whispered, “I have contacts, both in and outside of the Ministry. There is a way for you to see him, I’m sure. Let me put in a few calls, and we’ll settle an arrangement so that you can visit him at Nurmengard.”

His directness did not surprise Albus, who fixed him with his characteristic pensive yet gentle gaze, gratitude prominent in his features.

“I have seen him,” he confessed. “I’m allowed to visit him once a month and speak to him. But he can’t answer.”

“What do you mean?”

The ominous words made Horace frown.  _ Surely _ , they had not submitted Grindelwald to the Dementor’s Kiss.

Albus did not reply at once. He looked at the moving shadows on the wall, his expression unfocused.

“You have no idea what they’ve done to him. I have never seen such cruelty.” His voice shook. “They are keeping Gellert chained in the dark, under the Silencing Charm. No movement. No light. No company. Little food. They are doing everything they can to break his mind. I can’t even hold his hand when I’m there. The only reason they let me come is because they know what it does to me to see him suffer. And it is all my fault. All of it.”

Horace stared at him, his frown never fading.

“Who did this? Who made the decision?”

“The Ministries.” Despite Albus’s pain, the words kept tumbling out of his heaving chest, released for the first time. “The German one, the Austrian one, the Swiss one, the French one, even ours—all the Ministers involved in the war bear certain responsibility for the verdict. I spent so many months negotiating with them. I thought to myself: if I were to fight him, if I should defeat him, he would at least maintain his dignity and live out the rest of his life in decent circumstances. They promised. But they had never meant to keep their promise.”

It was impossible to feel indifferent in the face of his colleague’s agony; yet despite himself, Horace could not help but wonder at Albus’s readiness to believe the Ministers’ assurances. Those who wielded power would always do what suited them best, and no amount of promises would stop them. Not that he was going to say it out loud; Albus had already learned his lesson the hard way.

“So that’s why you lingered abroad for so long,” he pointed out instead. “You attempted to make them honour their word.”

“I did. I tried to beg, to threaten, to offer them deals, from one Ministry to another—anything in exchange for better conditions for Gellert.”

“What did they say?”

The tall wizard let out a humourless laugh. “Most of them thanked me for my help and told me I would receive the Order of Merlin for my trouble. A few declared they would look into it when the challenges of their posts allowed. And when I pressed on, they started offering me sweets.” He shook his head. “They want us to suffer. Gellert, because he is a threat to them and his ideas go against their archaic dogmas. They would like nothing more than to make an example of him so that no one ever dares to question wizards’ secrecy and lack of freedom again. And me, because I delayed and opposed them at every turn. In addition to this, we have enemies. There is a politician who loathes Gellert and me—we crossed him many years ago, though separately.”

“A politician?” Horace could barely keep the curiosity from his voice.

“A Dutchman. It’s a long story. The truth is, he is wealthy and influential enough to keep pouring gold down the Ministers’ pockets.”

There was a brief silence as the green-eyed wizard considered this. In the end, he decided against pressing the matter.

“What about your allies, though? Isn’t there anyone who can make an impact?”

Albus bit his lip. “There is a lady in Italy who genuinely cares. She has vowed to do everything in her power to help. So far, we have been unsuccessful: her family is powerful in business but isn’t much involved in international politics.”

“But some of Grind—Gellert’s followers are still on the loose. What if…”

This suggestion triggered an intense and almost shocking reaction in Albus. His eyes flashed, and the aura around him suddenly blazed, prompting Horace to shrink back.

“His followers.  _ Cowards _ is what they are. I would gladly throw them to the Dementors myself if I could lay my hands on them. They used Gellert for their own ambition; they destroyed his campaign and pushed him towards lawlessness. But as soon as they were in danger, they couldn’t betray him quickly enough. No, they were only brave when it came to murdering an innocent man.”

At Horace’s puzzled look, he lowered his voice, his anger giving way to pain.

“Gellert had a close friend, Dieter. They had met at school and had become like brothers to each other. I befriended them at the same time, all those years ago. He is… was… the kindest of wizards, a loyal friend. He never abandoned Gellert, never stopped advising him to stay in the path of Light. When the situation started spiralling out of control, Dieter reached out to me in secret.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Horace muttered, nearly light-headed from all the revelations. “When did this happen?”

“Five or six years ago.” Albus smiled sadly, as though he understood his colleague’s amazement. “You see, he was making arrangements to become the Secret Keeper of Gellert’s hiding place. It would have allowed him to take me there. If we had succeeded… maybe you would never have seen me again. I would have disappeared from Hogwarts and joined Gellert on the spot. Only, those cowards couldn’t have that. They wanted Gellert to themselves, for their own gain, and Dieter was standing in their way. When I arrived to the pre-agreed hideout to meet him… I found…”

His voice broke, and his fists clenched. Horace thought he knew where the story was heading.

“I see… They murdered him and tried to frame you for his death, didn’t they?”

When the other wizard nodded, he went on, his eyes narrowed.

“That’s why it came to a duel, isn’t it? He wanted to avenge his friend.”

“No. Gellert never believed I would hurt Dieter.”

“Oh. But then…”

Now that Horace pondered the issue, it occurred to him Grindelwald’s stance had always remained a mystery. The fact that Albus was in love with the German wizard no longer even counted as a secret: everyone involved in international politics had heard the rumour. But one point people never questioned was whether his love was reciprocated, as though assuming the Darkest wizard of their time was incapable of noble feelings. It was, perhaps, a valid notion; and yet, after hearing Valerius’s account of the duel and Albus’s own confession, Horace found himself wondering. There was only one way to find out.

“Why didn’t Gellert reach out to you himself? If he had, you would have come with him, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.” Albus closed his eyes. “Trust me, I asked myself this question for so many years. Why would he hide from me? Why wouldn’t he drop me a hint as to where he was staying? Had he forgotten? Could it be he hated me? If so, I couldn’t blame him. In the end, the reason turned out to be different, though just as heartbreaking. All this time, he had been afraid to face me, convinced  _ I  _ hated  _ him _ . Both for what had happened in our youth and due to his tarnished reputation. He also meant to give me a chance to live in peace, away from the dangers he was facing.”

Tears were sliding down his cheeks, and Horace put a comforting hand on his shoulder. His mind, however, brimmed with excitement. He had never dreamed of uncovering such a treasure trove of information, and he knew several journalists who would be willing to sell everything they owned in exchange for exclusive content of this nature. The only trouble was anonymity: if, as he suspected, Albus had never shared those details with another person, it would be immediately traced back to him. One could never be too careful.

“Albus, I’m so sorry.” He sighed, his gaze alight with sympathy. “How did you find him after all this time?”

“With the Deluminator,” the tall wizard whispered.

“The Delum—the little device of yours? The one that puts out the lights?”

“That’s not all it does,” came a somewhat cryptic answer. “Certain magical flames have the power of transporting wizards to a different place. When the bond between two people is strong, they are connected with magic of the most mystical kind.  _ Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also _ .”

If Horace had not known better, he would have assumed Albus was pulling his wand. Blinking, he tried and failed to decipher the nonsensical statement. It was a little frustrating.

“But how did you get through the protective wards? Can the device transcend those?”

“Gellert let me in,” Albus said simply. “He saw me waiting outside, behind the magical barrier.”

“And his followers?”

“They tried to stop me all right.” There was a short, bitter laugh. “Until I took one of them out. The next thing we knew, they were falling all over each other in their haste to Disapparate, leaving him there, alone. Traitors.”

The shorter wizard watched him, now positively disconcerted. “In this case… why didn’t the two of you leave together while there still was time?”

“We couldn’t, Horace. It was too late.” His colleague’s eyes were, once again, clouding in grief. “I had managed to break away from the Ministry for a few hours, but they would have found us eventually; they were tracking me. The only thing I  _ could _ do was ask Gellert to defeat me and run. Just leave the traitors and save himself. He refused. He was done running and hiding, he said. So this duel… it was for us. Our last chance to be together as free men. We stretched it for as long as we could, but it couldn’t last forever.”

A long pause ensued before Albus brought himself to continue.

“One of the last things he told me was,  _ The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Albus. I have learned it the hard way; now, I’m afraid, it’s your turn _ . And he was right, Horace. I was a fool to have trusted the Ministries. The reason I accepted to confront him in the first place is because I feared his followers would end up killing him, or worse. And had I declined, the authorities would have sent someone else to do the job—someone with no mercy. That’s what is most ironic. All I ever wanted was to make him happy. And now… now…”

The words had become almost incomprehensible, and Horace leaned in to support the other wizard, alarmed at the intensity of his anguish. This was no longer thrilling; if anything, it made him feel lost.

“Albus, my dear chap,” he said soothingly, patting the tall man’s shaking shoulders. “There, now. It’s not as bad as it seems. You can hardly help him if you destroy yourself.”

His eyes landed on the wand Albus had used to burn himself. It was not his original wand, and Horace understood this one had to have belonged to Grindelwald. A strange one it was too: old and rustic in style, with no handle but with cluster-like blobs running along its length. Given the amount of Dark magic Grindelwald was known to have produced, as well as the severity of Albus’s wounds, he felt a twinge of apprehension at the sight of it, as though the wand could be violent in nature. Admittedly, he was no expert where wandlore was concerned.

“I try to show him memories,” Albus murmured reminiscently, “when I come to see him. So that he would experience a little light amid all that darkness. But last night, he was barely conscious, so weak he had become.” He looked up at Horace, and for the first time, his eyes turned imploring. “Every day, every moment at that place is hell. What am I going to do, Horace? How do I force the authorities to stop their torture? Tell me, please. There is nothing I won’t do to help him.”

For some reason, his plea sobered the green-eyed wizard, who contemplated him for a few seconds, genuinely focused on the question.

“I can see one solution, my good chap,” he said at last. “Gaining leverage. The Ministry has to need you more than they need the Dutchman and his money. If they require something you alone can provide, they will grant your conditions; that’s how it works.”

“Leverage? What do I have that they don’t?” Albus pressed on, frowning.

It was impossible to tell where the association had come from, yet for an instant, Tom Riddle’s face flashed in Horace’s mind. He hastened to suppress the image.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he admitted with a gentle squeeze on Albus’s arm before lowering his voice, “though the right moment will present itself, I’m sure. It might take a while, it is true, but you can use this time to track down the followers who have betrayed him. And once you find out what the Ministry needs… make them choke on their sweets.”

Albus held his gaze. The words appeared to resonate with something deep within him, even if his voice was gentle as ever.

“Thank you, Horace.” With what appeared to be a tremendous effort, he forced his expression to soften. “You Slytherins… you are the wisest of all.”

“Not as wise as we think we are. Not always.”

Horace sighed. The more Albus opened up, the more difficult it felt to formulate the reason behind his late evening visit. Glancing once more around what used to be a bedroom and had now become a prison cell, he decided to leave. It would be heartless of him to demand his coveted trip to Norway, and he could not bring himself to utter the request: not when his colleague spent his nights indulging in self-harm because it was the only way he could live with himself. One never knew: maybe Durmstrang, the school of the wealthy elite, was exactly the place for Albus to forge the connections he needed. If so, Horace’s sacrifice—however reluctant and infuriating—would ultimately not have been for naught. In payment, he was carrying away a veritable stock of information, and he would use it if need be. Knowledge was power, certainly; but  _ sharing _ knowledge was an art.

**Author's Note:**

> When rereading Harry Potter, almanera and I strongly felt as though Albus’s efforts in thwarting Voldemort had been rather half-hearted and inefficient for a wizard of his power. His decisions within the Order of the Phoenix could be called questionable, and even his guidance of Harry—who, we believe, he truly was fond of—left the impression that his heart was in none of it. Yet we don’t feel this indifference stemmed from inherent malice or an evil nature. 
> 
> What if he had remained in love with Gellert for the rest of his life? What if he had suffered a betrayal from the Ministry, prompting him to loathe the authorities with a passion? What if he had watched his loved one suffer in hellish conditions, fighting in vain for many years to soften the verdict? This was our premise: a Ministry eager to make an example of the Darkest wizard of their time, and Albus’s powerless efforts to undo what he had accidentally caused… until an even Darker wizard came along. And then, as Horace Slughorn had predicted, the Ministry ran to Dumbledore for help. We think this is when Albus was able to secure more humane conditions for Gellert (the cell we see him inhabit in HP7) and breathe at last. For the first time in ages, he could enjoy something of life again, indulging in bright robes and sherbet lemons. But decades of pure agony will change even the kindest of people. It was small comfort for him to watch the Ministry stew in their own juices while Voldemort ran amok. 
> 
> I hope this addendum provides a little insight into the version almanera and I have developed and that you have enjoyed this story. Thank you for reading!


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